


Goetic

by Ironriots



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Background Relationships, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death In Dream, Demon Deals, Demon Summoning, Demons, Disabled Character, Gen, M/M, Multi, Muteness, Nightmares, Origin Story, Other, POV Third Person Limited, Partial Mind Control, Pre-Slash, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironriots/pseuds/Ironriots
Summary: They say that first impressions are everything.





	1. Invocation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fr00tb4t](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fr00tb4t/gifts).



> I have a lot of Opinions About Ghouls and a burning need to let the headcanon worldbuilding thats been boiling inside of my soul for months into the world.

The first thing he can remember is drowning. Rather, the sensation of drowning. Inhaling molten air heavier than the ocean. He feels it burning through his throat, salt in the wound. He grips the guitar tighter in clammy palms, gasping as he is pulled through the veil. It is water, or maybe blood. He coughs, feeling liquid ooze between his lips, down his chin. There is no air, only the agonizing burn of the fluid and the smell of ash. The drawing force is like a choking hand, dragging him from the depths.

The roaring sound of his own pulse fades and the invisible hands suddenly release him. He stumbles, a discordant thrum of the guitar in his hands and finds that he can breathe again. The swallowed pitch withdraws as he chokes helplessly in place. There is music, an organ, a choir? He blinks away the tears of exertion and tries to master himself. What an excellent first impression he must be making, spewing and gasping and stumbling around.

“Behold!” Comes a voice, and the choir stops. Before him stands an ancient man, rheumy-eyed and hunched beneath the crown of a splendid mitre. Next to the old man stands a younger one, robed in scarlet, watching with rapt attention.

He clears his throat, prepared to introduce himself, and opens his mouth. Instead he is nearly doubled over as the raw, stinging sensation from earlier burns through his gullet. Nothing escapes his lips but a puff of smoke.

The old man, however, is busy intoning rapid fire latin. There comes a faint pop and whiff of ozone that he knows to be the unworking of a circle. The old man pauses and turns to his companion.

“Bid him to sing and the binding shall be done.”

The man in red nods and returns his attention to the demon. Their eyes meet, and he finds the gaze piercing, one eye burning brilliantly white. Curiously it is the man who sings.

 _‘Hypnotizing horns of ram_  
_Paralyzing pentagram_  
_And the eerie sound of the monstrance clock_  
_Singing_  
_Come together, together as one_  
_Come together for Lucifer's son…’_

A wave of something akin to nausea grips him as the man’s voice carries, and as it fades the demon realizes that the sound is now coming from his own mouth. A haunting echo reverberates and he can see puffs of smoke spill from his own treacherous lips. He grasps frantically at his own mouth and the unholy echo ends.

The old man looks from the demon to the man in red, and then back again. Then, in a manner of unfitting casualty, he shrugs and pats the shoulder of his companion.

“This one is not a singer, I think. But hey, we can’t all be winners.”

The man in red grimaces briefly and gestures out into the room. In response, the lights are brought up. They are in what appears to be a modest auditorium. The demon looks around at his surroundings and discovers to his left an electric keyboard, at which stands a pair of other demons, women with the same silvery faces and deft hands as his own. They offer encouraging smiles. To his right, a group of four male demons perch in the front row seating. One of them is very familiar, though in the glare of the stage lighting his addled brain is unable to place it. They offer a smattering of golf claps.

So much for first impressions. Shame tightens in his gut and behind it the even more familiar sting of spite. He straightens his posture and strikes a chord on his guitar defiantly. The two men stare at him expectantly. He begins to play in earnest, stepping slowly out of the remains of the circle and watches their expressions shift from anticipation to glee. By the time he finishes with a shred bordering upon the masturbatory, the formerly quiet room is filled with at least an appropriate amount of applause. None in the room seem as thrilled as the man in red, now fairly leaping with excitement.

 _Much better_ , he thinks.


	2. The Grand Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most offensive thing about the earth, he decides then and there, is the presence of fresh air.

As the applause peters out the man in red steps closer to him and beckons to one of the keyboardists. She steps out from behind the instrument and sweeps in beside him.

“If you would be so kind as to eh, show him around the place?” He says to her. She nods silently, and he turns again to give him an uncanny once over.

“Welcome aboard.” He lifts his hand as if to shake his before nervously tucking it back to his side and settling on a firm nod and walking away. The demon watches as he rejoins his superior, awkwardly offering the crook of his arm. The ancient man takes it in an arthritic hand and they begin shambling towards the doors, speaking in low tones. He returns his attention to the woman, who shrugs. 

She leads him silently backstage, pausing and gesturing to indicate points of interest along the way. The dressing rooms are first, one in a state of communal chaos: costume racks either filled to bursting or overturned, scraps of paper stuck on mirrors and littering the floor, a couple of cracked espresso cups mingling amongst punctured styrofoam. The second door is closed, marked only by a paper note reading CARDINAL taped over the engraved name plate. As his chaperone turns her back to continue the tour he slips a claw under the tape to read the name underneath, TREZO.

They exit the backstage via a service corridor which opens onto a wider vestibule.The interior is finished ebony and moldering wallpaper, and he catches a glimpse of a broad staircase leading upwards to the balcony levels. His guide ushers him through a pair of leaded glass doors.

The most offensive thing about the earth, he decides then and there, is the presence of fresh air. Immediately a frigid vacuum rips the heat from his body and the breath from his abused lungs, vaporizing before his eyes. He reels back only to fall into a gentle shove between his shoulder blades and the door shuts behind them with a resounding thud. It is damnably near midnight and a reassuring void stretches over their heads, salted with peculiar pinpricks of silver. He barely has time to register the frostbitten courtyard as his companion guides him across the flagged path and into another building.

As he is wheeled into the next fresh horror he realizes the hand on his back is not shivering. Over his shoulder the woman is clearly cracking up. He bristles for a moment before it strikes him that even as her face contorts to laughter there is no sound. He peers at her with open suspicion, to which she cocks her head and continues walking.

He follows her through a candlelit dormitory, twisting and turning. Every so often he can hear snatches of conversation echoing from the stone walls. At last they arrive in an empty refectory, from which wafts the divine scent of cooking meat. Distracted by olfactory delight he barely notices a pair of nuns that gape openly at the new arrival. 

Thankfully his guide seems to be of a similar mind and leads him through the room towards the kitchens. They appear deserted, but the lingering aroma of dinner remains. After checking whether the coast is clear his soundless host disappears into another room, to return with a pair of steaming bowls. She nods towards the island counter in the middle of the room and he practically bolts for a pair of stray stools, making sure to carefully place the guitar that was until now still hanging around his neck. The bowls are filled with a hearty stew of lamb, hungrily devoured by a mouth too unrefined by far in a scant minute or two. His companion is slightly more reserved, and when she is finished she plucks the bowl out of his hands, his tongue lolling comically in place. She places the dishes in the sink, and signals that it is time for them to move on. He swings his guitar over his shoulder, regretting in the moment that he didn’t bring a case.

She leads him finally down into a dim pantry stocked with equal parts food and reagents. He quickly swipes an apple off a shelf as he passes, careful to hide his laden hand behind his back.They descend deeper still to a cellar that serves seemingly only as a hallway to a solid oak door bearing a wrought iron knocker in the shape of Baphomet’s head. She raises the ring in the goat’s mouth and brings it down six times, upon which it swings open. The woman looks back over her shoulder, her curly hair bright as mercury from the warm glow within, and beckons a claw flirtatiously. Sated, tired and momentarily charmed he slips in behind her.

Inside is a surprisingly large den arrayed similarly to the dressing room from the auditorium. On the far end of the room there roars a healthy-looking fire, before which are a couple of beaten sofas. To each side are a total of seven cots piled with soft-looking whatnots, only one of which looks unslept-in. With relief he notes that it is the closest to the pit of crackling flames.

There are as before countless scraps of paper on nearly every surface and half as many pens. If it’s made of sawdust, it was fair game. Phone books, copy paper, cardboard, upon which were scribbled everything from vulgar insults to shopping lists. The only order was in the careful placement of an assortment of instruments, which he presumed belonged to the denizen of the nearest bed. Lost in observing the new digs, he jumps in fright when someone loudly plucks his guitar from behind, his screech disappearing ere it was uttered.

Safely huddled behind him is the welcoming committee...well, from hell. The six other demons scatter gleefully throughout the room like a colony of bats who have chanced upon a swarm of mosquitoes. Gradually they each settle around the room, perched on chairs or hanging off of bed frames, snickering silently until one of the male demons points into the floor. There is the stolen apple, dropped in surprise.

He and the snitch both dive for the fruit, and he collides with the sturdier body, who holds it aloft in response. In the closeness their eyes meet, studying one another briefly. Recognition flickers over the newcomer’s face and he steps back in disbelief.

 _‘You?’_ His mouth falls open, but the incredulous drawl is lost in the air.

The other demon shrugs, tossing the apple into the air and catching it. His cohorts look on with interest.

Suddenly aware that he is now under scrutiny, he shuts his slackened jaw and pats a wrinkle from his shirt. He snatches for the fruit, catching it but having to jump in the attempt. Before anyone else can get a chance at his misbegotten snack he makes to take a bite of it. The keyboardist suddenly lurches forward off of her cot, waving her hands at him. Almost before he has time to ask there is a rustle of paper and the acquaintance holds up a crumpled post-it.

_I wouldn’t do that if I were you._

He looks up at the stoic silvery face of the author, every synapse firing with disobedience. _Oh, yeah?_ He cocks his head and tosses the apple in his own hand before bringing it to his lips, never breaking eye contact. He’s barely swallowed it before he drops to the floor face first, his guitar landing on his back with a resigned twang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh the plot (and the paragraphs) thicken. just who WAS that masked man?


	3. Not Every Day In Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She strikes a glissando, running her hand across the keys. He feels a breeze kick up around him, as if stirred by the sound. “There are many ways to speak without words.”

He wakes up in a cold sweat to a wild mechanical churning noise. As his eyes adjust to the gloom he looks around his own, familiar apartment. Everything is just as he left it, faded posters taped to swollen drywall, the single window cracked open to welcome the humid sulfurous breeze. He climbs out of his bed, crumpling the stained jersey sheets, and heaves the window open to poke his head out.

The alley that he overlooked was barely wide enough to accommodate a rusting fire escape. The adjacent building across the alley shared the creaking scaffold such that it was more of a sky bridge than a functioning point of emergency egress. Looking towards the street he can make out the headlights of cars careening through the close smog that permeated the street level. He withdraws back inside, rubbing his face. What a dream, he thought.

“What a dream” he says aloud, stroking his neck thoughtfully. He’s pleased to hear the sound of his own voice again.

He walks into the kitchenette, pondering the mostly empty refrigerator when he hears the front door unlock. The intruder tries the door, and coming up against the deadbolt, closes it and thumps it until the disintegrating chain falls off.

“So as I was sayin’, $2700 a month. Bathrooms is on the 5th floor….” The landlord oozes into the room, his massive hairy bulk barely squeezing between the couch and the kitchen counter.

“Hey dog breath, I paid up through July!” He retorts, bolting in front of him. The landlord, however, doesn’t so much as blink a tennis ball-like eye. Instead, he kicks the sofa aside with one of his scaly feet, causing an ashtray to fall off the sagging coffee table. Behind him the prospective new tenant cranes his neck. A familiar shock of mercury-bright hair slithers out from behind to survey.

“Excuse me, this is a private domicile!” He has to clamber over the sofa to find space to stand, but the landlord continues to ignore him.

The new tenant slips easily through the cramped studio, inspecting with interest the stack of magazines he keeps by his bed for Incidental Purposes.

He lets out a strangled noise when the intruder picks his guitar off the stand. His most prized possession cradled in the experienced hands of another. He grabs for it, the strings on the neck rasp as he closes his hand around it and tries to pry it free. In the kitchenette the landlord is downing a carton of milk, clotted cream accumulating on his greasy mustache.

A hand claps over his own and begins to prise his fingers off, initiating a tug of war. He looks into the smug silver face of the intruder and the floor beneath them suddenly heaves. With a sickening groan the floorboards pop loose beneath them, and they plummet through the collapsing ceiling. 

They fall for what seems like a hundred stories, their writhing bodies tangling in the air over the precious instrument. Suddenly the intruder’s body is snatched out of the air by a protruding support beam. He barely has time to register the wet crunch of the impact. The guitar strap snaps, still clutched in the other’s fist. He holds the instrument to his chest as he continues to fall, screwing his eyes shut as he waits for his own imminent impact.

He lands feet-first, his legs crumpling beneath him like an accordion. He feels his bones break more than he hears them, grinding and popping as they shatter. He clutches the guitar, his lifeline, an ivory angel delivering him from the pain of his body crashing into the rubble. He can see his broken body through the dust, as though he were looking down upon it. Popped like a particularly gorged tick smeared onto a napkin. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes he finds himself sitting in a barren desert. There is nothing from horizon to horizon but coarse red ground and velvety black sky.

The guitar lies next to him in the dust, unscathed. He takes it in his hands reverently and strums it. Perfectly tuned, betraying no sign of the last several traumatic hours. He begins to pluck out a simple chord when a cool breeze sifts through the dust. Lost in the music he strikes up a complex melody. He becomes aware that there is accompaniment, and looks up to see the woman that led him through the abbey, her hands gliding along the keys of a synthesizer. Not wanting to ruin the moment, they continue to play the melody out.

“So, this is a dream right?” He asks.

“You could call it that.” She answers. Her voice is soft, and at the risk of seeming redundant, sing-song. He ponders this for a moment.

She plays a single note, letting it ring through the empty air.

“I don’t suppose you’d explain how this works?” He hugs his spindly legs closer to his body, feeling shaken.

Another note. “It’s a transaction, of sorts.”

“Is it worth it?”

She smiles bemusedly. “It’s....an honor. Here, we are more than we ever could have been in hell.”

He pauses to digest this as well. “But you can’t…..?” He trails off, gesturing to his own throat.

“That is the price, yes. We cannot speak of our own volition. You get used to it.”  She strikes a glissando, running her hand across the keys. He feels a breeze kick up around him, as if stirred by the sound. “There are many ways to speak without words.”

He looks down at the guitar in his lap, deep in thought. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, you’ve taken an involuntary vow of silence.

“Hey what’s your name….anyways?” He trails off, finding that he is again alone on the vast empty plain. A shadow flits over his head and he snaps his eyes upward. A tiny red bird alights on the head stock of his guitar, watching him with beady eyes.

Behind him a steady roll of thunder rumbles, and he flinches from the sound. The bird skips and flies away, quickly lost against the ruddy desert. He turns to watch a towering wall of violet clouds churning their way across the skyline. Green lightning twists its way through, breaking onto the barren ground. He can smell it scorching its way ineffectively across the plain, as if disappointed for the lack of scenery to destroy. The storm seems to have a percussive rhythm of its own. He listens closer and is almost certain he can hear the rumbling of a bass, the beats of a drum. The crushing pressure of the surge bears down, and he feels curiously as if the storm is breaking from the inside of him. A strange calm washes over him as he sits there alone in the wasteland, and as the clouds open above him he lays back upon the ground. It’s not every day that it rains in hell, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks to everyone so far for all your Kudos! Be sure to leave me a comment if there's anything at all you'd like to see next!


	4. A Ghoul By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not until he is on the choir threshold that he realizes breathlessly that he has outpaced his escorts. The cardinal’s attention is fixated on him, and under the mismatched gaze he is overwhelmed with the notion that there is suddenly no one else in the cathedral but the two of them.

He wakes more peacefully this time, the thunder rolling softly. It must be pretty intense storm to hear it even underground, he thinks. He is sprawled on the empty bed, his guitar placed thoughtfully in a stand scavenged from elsewhere in the room.

He sits up slowly, at first finding the room empty. On one of the cots opposite something moves, and a slender demon slips out from under a tower of blankets. As their eyes meet the blankets themselves shift and bed frame creaks as another occupant of the bed rolls over. He and the slender demon regard each other warily, until his concentration is broken by a towering figure who rises slowly out of the bed. The tall demon ignores the newcomer, instead mussing the hair of his bedmate before beginning to root around on the paper-strewn floor next to a drum set occupying the corner.

He glances down, momentarily abashed. He pretends instead to keenly inspect the inseam of his trousers. The slender demon approaches him, and holds out a mostly-used yellow legal pad. The handwriting is neat and rounded. 

_Pleasant dreams?_

He blinks up at the writer and nods hesitantly. The other returns a small smile, and makes another scrawl on the pad.

Written beneath the first message: _They are waiting on us._

He cocks his head as the slim hand snakes around his arm and pulls him up. The grip is cool, accompanied by a whiff of petrichor. By the door his tall companion waits patiently. They cross the room to join him. The slender demon stops next to a shabby wardrobe and opens it to check on a mirror hung on the inside of the door. He takes this time himself to preen just a bit, scrubbing the crust from his eyes and combing his fingers through his hair.

The towering demon holds the door open for the three of them, and he is led back out through the cellar. Unlike his last trip, they do not stop for a meal as they exit the kitchen, an issue he finds himself not wanting to press. They pass again through the labyrinthine flagged halls and he tries this time to orientate himself, but as soon as they pass one threshold to the next the path slips through his mind like water through a sieve.

They reach at last the external doors of the building and he halts, shying backward. His morning escorts, however, have the same amount of pause as the evening one. The slender demon pulls the heavy iron handle and the door swings inward, bringing with it the humid stormy air of the outdoors. His cohort grasps him by the back of the neck and firmly shoos him outside. The atmosphere feels closer in the deluge outside, and warmer. Gone is the midnight frost, instead the hiss of rain spills over flowering hedges and spray roses. While he had been shown through the path of least resistance across the courtyard, a cloister walk spans the border between buildings, and through this they travel to a building on the northern side of the property. The door again is solid dark wood, but this time intricately carved with images of angels doing things...he’s pretty certain angels don’t do. But there’s no time to inspect what was clearly a detailed artistic narrative because the doors are opening and through them can be heard voices raised in twisted hymns.

It’s not the same as the dilapidated auditorium building. Here is opulence personified. The ceiling vaults away above them as they pass into the nave of the cathedral. Several members of the congregation are already turning to observe the latecomers. At the west end, his cohorts are standing in the choir. The cardinal paces in front of them, every gangly limb afire with passion as he leads their fiendish voices. The two women again have their keyboards in tow for accompaniment.

As the three of them turn up the aisle the cardinal turns with a flourish, his hands spread to beckon them forward. He feels his blood rush with fervor, and his pace quickens as they approach the altar. It’s not until he is on the choir threshold that he realizes breathlessly that he has outpaced his escorts. The cardinal’s attention is fixated on him, and under the mismatched gaze he is overwhelmed with the notion that there is suddenly no one else in the cathedral but the two of them. The last swell of the choir fades and his comrades draw up to either side of him the cardinal’s eyes snap upward toward the congregation. There is a brief murmur from the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen....I give you……...GHOUL!” He cries, and the cathedral rings with applause in response.

With surprising difficulty, he manages to jerk his body back towards the pews. Once his attention falls back to the congregation he feels a small weight lift from his body, and he bows with a flourish. As the audience quiets down the cardinal’s voice again fills the chamber.

“Now, we didn’t just bring him here for looks, of course. I think it would be a shame not to eh, give alla y’all a sample. So!” He claps his gloved hands and the demon feels himself turn again with the magnetic pull of the cardinal’s attention. The keyboardists have disappeared, as well as the other male demon with whom he had not yet been acquainted.

In the extra room on the risers the slim demon is settling in with an acoustic bass, sharing expressive glances with the man of his nightmares, who is tuning one of a pair of acoustic guitars. The cardinal fixes him with a look and indicates for him to come take the other. He finds himself fairly skipping onto the risers and taking the spare instrument into his hands. It feels earthly, humble.

The cardinal gestures, and they strike up a chord, and he picks it up with surprising ease, as if the melody was a long-forgotten memory. The other guitarist watches him intently, but without malice.

The cardinal begins to sing, swaying sumptuously as he does so. The way he moves is much less like a clergyman, with all the obscenity of a cabaret. With his voice he describes a bawdy scene of temptation and wickedness that the congregation chuckles and claps along with. Quite thankfully, neither he nor his companions are compelled to harmonize, content to strum their instruments.

The truce between himself and the other guitarist endures into the bridge, when his companion plucks out a solo. He watches intently, trying to commit the notes to memory. In return the other demon casts a meaningful glance. The cardinal goes into the final verses, the final line lingering in the air.

Theirs being the finale of the morning mass, the cardinal makes his closing remarks and dismisses the congregation fondly. His impish cohorts mill about restlessly within the transepts, their part in the service finished. As the last of the congregation leaves, down from the pulpit comes the ancient man from the evening before, still clad in the chasuble and mitre. This time he is supported by a plump, severe-looking woman.

“Ah, Papa, Sister!” The cardinal moves forward to greet them eagerly, kissing the hand of the woman. “I hope that today’s service was to your satisfaction,” He adds, with a note of hesitancy.

The woman smiles back at the cardinal, her eyes glinting with a peculiar fierceness that belied her matronly appearance. “Enthralling as ever, Cardinal. But you must introduce me to our newest Ghoul…”

“Of course! Of course…” The cardinal turns towards the huddle of demons and again locks his gaze to the newcomer, scarcely having to beckon.

He approaches the humans, a chill makes the hairs on his neck stand up. The woman looks him up and down appraisingly, and leaves the side of the old man to even circle around him. She suddenly reaches out and catches him by the chin, her hands peculiarly warm as she turns his face this way and that. “Guitar, you said, Papa?”

“Yes, Seester.” The old man nods. “His performance at the summoning was really something.”

She reaches down and takes his hand, inspecting the calluses under his claws. He stands stock-still, as if in the jaws of a predator. At last she closes his fingers over his palm and pushes it back to him, as if presenting the gift of having not maimed him to death. He rubs it with his other hand unconsciously.

“Will he be ready for the Sabbath Ritual?” She asks the cardinal.

“I will do my best to make it so, Sister, Your Dark Excellency.” He clasps his hands together with a quick bob. The woman nods.

“We will be looking forward to it, then.” She looks at him over her nose. “All eyes will be on you and yours, Copia.” She takes the old priest’s arm again, and they bid a silent farewell, shambling off as quickly as the geriatric man’s legs would allow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally.......some ship stuff happens lol. whats an update schedule? please comment, critique, question, and all that good stuff.


	5. Role Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is for this reason that we will be depending on our newest ghoul to fill the Fire position.”

The demon looks back at the cardinal, unsure of whether or not it would be appropriate to ask for an explanation.

The cardinal looks him in the eyes, as if sensing the question. “Come.” He says, turning back towards the pack of so-called Ghouls, who are gesturing amongst themselves silently on the risers. He claps his hands together, and every head turns, hands and bodies growing still to listen.

“I’m sure you have all had the pleasure of meeting your newest companion.” The cardinal reaches over and scoops an arm around his shoulders. The demon swallows hard, suppressing an unexpected shiver of pleasure at the contact. He is guided carefully to the risers, where he gratefully takes a seat.

“His Dark Excellency and The Sister have of course chosen our timing carefully. Walpurgis night is upon us,” Here, several ghouls jostle one another. “And it falls to us to provide the night’s entertainment-- simmer down…” 

“It is for this reason that we will be depending on our newest ghoul to fill the Fire position.” There is a muted gasp, and the demon from his nightmares looks between the cardinal and the newcomer in mild shock. The cardinal stares back placidly. “Aether position will be tasked with preparing him to play accordingly. The rest of you will perform duties as usual.”

He paces before them, fixing each demon in turn with the single bright eye. “There is to be nothing beyond the usual mischief until _after_ the ceremony. Those of you who fail will be contending with Sister Imperator directly.” Some of the ghouls flinch at this. The newcomer feels his own skin crawl in recollection.

“With that, you’re dismissed for the afternoon. We reconvene in the evening in the auditorium for rehearsal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really short chapter this time, but the next one is more substantial


	6. The Pecking Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The glove is in-hand, waiting to be thrown at the pluck of a string. They slip into the same tension from the cathedral, Aether’s silent offense against his own mute spite. The metronomic enchantment hangs on each missed measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dueling banjos, but make it metal #explainaplotbadly

The pack disperses in chunks, each ghoul exchanging hushed stares at each other and the newcomer as they leave, gesticulating erratically as soon as they thought they were far from notice. It is just the two of them, he and the ghoul the cardinal called Aether. They eye one another like a pair of tomcats. Suddenly they are alone for the first time in what must be a hundred years. Neither of them seem particularly thrilled at the idea.

Eventually Aether stands, and casts a sidelong glance at him as he walks back down the aisle the direction he entered. He follows reluctantly, taking his time to catch up with the taller demon. Whatever grave misfortune had decided that they should share the day would have to wait, as curiosity outweighed the cat’s sense of self preservation.

They wander through the humid courtyard and back into the dormitory. It is no longer deserted, every so often they cross paths with a nun or two. Though their habits look more or less similar than any other nun he’s ever seen (granted, not many), their demeanor is far from usual. Their eyes are direct, their smiles just too wide. At least one openly leers, her eyes stripping down his companion’s body. The man of his nightmares winks back at her.

They arrive in the refectory in time for lunch, a couple dozen nuns are sitting down to their afternoon meal. At the last table sit the ghouls. Well, seated may be a strong word. The nuns seem to occupy the other tables out of necessity. A flock of lesser demons at mealtime can be a chaotic affair, no exceptions. His comrades slurp and snap their way through their meal, pausing mostly to box one another over a choice portion, or to scratch notes onto a very thick block of post-its.

Aether makes his way down to find a spare seat. The other occupants of the table each pause as he passes. The newcomer scoots himself in where he can fit, settling between the bassist and the smaller of the two women.

Lunch may have been roast chicken. The bassist pushes a dish towards him, mostly bones at this point but some promising marrow. He reaches a claw out, mouth watering, but hesitates. The small keyboardist lunges across the table for the stack of post its, fishing a chewed pen out of her hair.

 _IT’S SAFE_ , She strokes the adhesive onto the table next to his plate. He peers back at her, unconvinced. In response, she plucks the tip of a wing off of the plate and crunches it primly between her teeth before swallowing it down.

Good enough for him. He tucks into the plate of scraps, occasionally glancing around at his companions. Aether and the ghoul he hasn’t yet met are seated at the corner, moving their hands in complicated rhythm. He feels a piece of paper bounce off his head and is forced to look away and uncrumple the projectile.

 _SO HOW DO YOU KNOW HIM?_ He looks down at the petite, curly head. The bassist leans in from the opposite side to read the message and nods. Feeling cornered, he holds out his hand and the small keyboardist hands him her pen.

 _It’s a long story,_ He writes on the same post-it. This is an unsatisfactory answer. The keyboardist plucks him between the horns, silent giggles wheezing through her lips as his hackles rise. He throws out his hand, gesturing for the stack of post its.

 _What’s happening on Walpurgis night?_ He writes. The bassist takes this one, pulling a leaky marker out of his shirt pocket.

 _Big party... Biggest party!!_ The bassist underlines the second line for emphasis. The rest of the table has now read the latest note, and several eager claws fight for the stack of post its at once.

 _Virgins!, Witches!, Wine!, Fires!, Dancing!_ Notes pelt down onto the table in front of him.

Aether and the other ghoul drop their conversation to watch the chaos before grabbing his own sheet off the now rapidly diminished stack.

 _Important gig. Don’t fuck it up._ It reads. A bell begins to toll, and the nuns begin to disperse, gathering their dishes together neatly before filing out of the refectory. A couple stay behind, one of whom approaches their table with a stern expression. The ghouls take this cue and begin to clean up their own dishes as best they can before the nun shoos them away to salvage the plates.

He and his companions retreat back down to the cellar, dodging the sisters who remain in the kitchen for cleaning duty. The fire has been left to smolder in their absence, and the moisture from the rain leaves the walls slightly clammy. The tallest ghoul heaves a fresh log into the fireplace and pokes at the embers with an iron. The keyboardists collapse into their beds for a well deserved nap, leaving the men to their own devices. Aether drapes himself onto the big sofa, carrying his black guitar with him. He jerks his head to a vacant armchair, indicating that he should take a seat. He retrieves his guitar from the borrowed stand and does so with an irritated huff.

They sit there for a moment, awkwardly sizing each other up. Aether plucks a note, and time seems suddenly more solid, as the first tick of a metronome. The note becomes a greeting chord, and then stops.

He repeats the greeting back, though the venom he willed into it vanishes as soon as the strings vibrate. It’s been an age since he last conversed like this...and they both know it.

The next chord begins, and they gradually harmonize. An intricate web of musical conversation sweeps between them. It is for the most part small talk, a prelude of formality. The others in the room doze quietly, lulled by the musical murmur.

At last, Aether changes the tune. Now is the time for practice. He strums out a much cruder chord, pausing so that he can repeat it. He plays it back with only slight hesitancy. They continue in call and response, Aether introducing slight variations.

They are, however, playing only half a melody. He glances at his would-be tutor curiously, and plays back a chord variation of his own. Aether’s eyes narrow at the impudent gesture, and plays back a fast riff.

The glove is in-hand, waiting to be thrown at the pluck of a string. They slip into the same tension from the cathedral, Aether’s silent offense against his own mute spite. The metronomic enchantment hangs on each missed measure.

He looks away from Aether, staring derisively into his own lap. Why should he be beholden to this man, he thinks to himself. After all these years, and the wicked inevitability of fate drops them back into one another’s path, cursed to collide again and again for untold eternity. Every opportunity he’s scrapped and bled for, all turned into an endless pissing contest with one man.

He takes up the chord they were practicing on, faster and faster, building into it so hard that the coarse strings spark, sending a puff of smoke into the air. Aether launches into his own fierce rebuttal, his own instrument putting off a peculiar glow accompanied by the scent of ozone.

By this time the rest of the room’s occupants are observing with interest, unwilling to intervene. The argument continues to boil, shredding and screeching as the guitarists quarrel. The resulting cacophony begins to tremble the walls, rustling the thousands of scraps of paper and shaking loose a spider who had been comfortably nested in the ceiling corner.

Abruptly, the newcomer drops his guitar and dives at his counterpart, a snarl of fury on his face. The rest of the room jolts with him, but it is the unfamiliar ghoul who first snatches him back by the neck. He is solidly built, easily overpowering the aggressor, sending both demon and chair sailing backwards onto the floor.

He coughs as the wind is knocked from him, and his head cracks against the hard floor. Instantly he curls inward, unable to roll himself into a fetal position by the fact that the other ghoul is pinning him to the floor with a thick forearm. They remain that way for a moment, the other kneeling awkwardly over the fallen couch. He tries to catch his breath, laying as still as possible in surrender. Eventually the other demon releases him, standing up and dusting himself off.

The rest of the pack are staring in fascination. Having satisfied that there was no further violence about to erupt, nobody makes any move aside from the ghoul who threw him, who himself doesn’t even check if the other guitarist is scathed. Aether stands placidly from the other couch and, without a second glance, strides out of the room, guitar in tow.

If it was possible for a group of people who make no sound of their own to share an awkward silence, this would be it. He rolls himself off of the floor slowly, patting the back of his head and finding it unsurprisingly damp. The ghoul who threw him looks at him, expression entirely unreadable.

As if on cue comes the muffled ring of a bell. The confusing tension of the room is broken, and each of them begins to gather their instruments, excepting the drummer, who simply tucks his sticks into a small black case. He picks up his own scuffed guitar from the overturned chair, and pushes it back into its rightful position, feeling suddenly abashed. He notices that one of the strings is snapped.

They file out in silence. The only one who spares more than a second glance at him is the smaller keyboardist, who hangs back to walk alongside him in what he feels is distinct pity.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @fr00tb4t for believing in me and my group chat for putting up with me shrieking about bands they dont listen to at 8pm. More to come, check on me on pillowfort or dreamwidth as Ironriots!


End file.
